Dolores on the Dotted Line

Tuesday, April 7

The bartender sat a swan glass full of peach schnapps in front of me and called me Lolita, though he had never read the book before. He knew enough to know I was one, he said. He knew enough to know that I knew nothing at all. With 23 years, jet black hair and a few broken hearts to my name he said I knew nothing at all. He said not to call anything intense unless it had to do with sex because nothing else should ever be that intense, unless it was fucking.

I sat with my friends beside me and pushed dried up tears into the deserts in my tear ducts and let men buy us shot after shot, knowing that as drunk as my body got, my brain would never follow. I'm not even crying over you anymore is the hard part; I'm crying for my horizon and how long it will take the sun to set. I'm crying for a San Francisco apartment with exposed brick and piano keys. I'm crying for a seemingly endless fall and a chance at a warm December.

6 comments:

There is no changing what's already happened. Where you end up, wherever it may be, physically as well as in your mind, know that every choice you made led to there and that it will take you beyond.so everything led to that shitty bar. but do have faith that you're going somewhere beyond, some place where your mind wont be so disconnected from where you stand physicallt. You are already becoming the person you haven't become yet.

Beautiful writing :) Thanks for your comment on my blog, it makes my heart full to know that people read my words and also identify with me! I look forward to reading more from you.

I was saying to a friend today, that heartbreak and shitty experiences with love, although they tear us apart, they also make everything more interesting and give us stories and words and feelings, things to write about. And although no one would ever choose to feel such pain, I'm always glad when I look back, to have had these experiences, the intense highs (even if they are always followed by the worst lows)

Connect

Lovely Readers

words

Confess to yourself in the deepest hour of the night whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, 'Must I write?'

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Vitality shows in not only the ability to persist but the ability to start over.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

That is part of the beauty of all literature. You discover that your longings are universal longings, that you're not lonely and isolated from anyone. You belong.

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

-Ernest Hemingway

Study broadly and without fear.

-John Green

Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic, and a gruesome winless battle. A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.